


In This Corner

by Jan and June (Slimslash)



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Fighting, Fucking, M/M, Maquis, Old School, Rookie POV Issues, alt.startrek.creative.erotica
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1996-10-13
Updated: 1996-10-13
Packaged: 2018-01-10 11:01:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1158903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slimslash/pseuds/Jan%20and%20June
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This Chakotay/Paris story was originally posted to usenet (alt.startrek.creative.erotica) in October, 1996.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In This Corner

 

"Ensign Kim, have you finished running the diagnostic on the communications systems yet?" Commander Chakotay's voice  
rang out across the bridge, catching Harry off guard.

"Uh, no, Commander. With all the repairs going on in Engineering, some of the systems are still offline. I should be finished in another hour or so." Harry continued to work at his console, trying to reroute power to the downed systems and find a way to get the information the Commander had asked for only an hour earlier. Even on a good day it would take an hour and a half to run those tests. With the ship under repairs it was going to take much longer. Why was the Commander so edgy about getting the results?

"Well, make it snappy, Mr. Kim."

Around the bridge, a few eyebrows were raised at the first officer's uncharacteristic words and impatient tone. Harry flushed warmly. He had been reprimanded in public, and for something that wasn't even his fault. Tuvok glanced at the Captain briefly to confirm that she had noted Chakotay's words. Captain Janeway pursed her lips and looked across at the Commander thoughtfully, a question forming a tiny wrinkle in the space between her eyebrows.

The tension on the bridge was worse today. It had been building since Voyager's last confrontation with Seska and the Kazons, a week ago, when Tom Paris had gone undercover on the Kazon ship. Tuvok's plan had worked admirably--Jonas was uncovered as the spy aboard Voyager--and Janeway had expected the morale of the crew to improve dramatically when everyone knew what Paris had done for the ship. Instead, it seemed like the undercurrents of divisiveness had become almost as difficult to navigate as they had been just after the two crews first merged. It was damned discouraging, but Janeway thought she understood. Although the first officer wasn't overtly inciting the former Maquis, Chakotay's edginess was the reason for the tension on the bridge. She would have to talk to him, and soon.

It didn't help morale that Voyager had been all but stalled since Jonas's attempted sabotage was revealed. As soon as the ship was temporarily out of Kazon range, Janeway had set Lieutenant Torres to work checking and overhauling all the systems Jonas had worked on in engineering, just to make sure he hadn't done more damage than they realized. Since systems-wide testing had to be done, and the warp engines couldn't be used until the tests were complete, B'Elanna had convinced the Captain to let her realign the warp coils while the engines were offline. This work would raise the output of the warp engines by almost ten percent, but it meant hard work for everyone in engineering until it was finished. In the meantime, they were cruising at impulse power and performing diagnostics on every system on the ship; after almost a week of this, practically sitting still, everyone was ready to get underway again.

The only two people on the bridge who seemed oblivious to the responses to Chakotay's curt treatment of Ensign Kim were Tom Paris, busy rechecking his final adjustments to the helm, and Chakotay himself. He was brooding again.

 

* * *

 

What had Janeway said? They had needed a "convincing performance" out of him. He could still taste the bitterness of the betrayal a week later. After all he had done for this ship--all the times he had bitten his tongue rather than differ with the Captain in front of their joined crews--this is how he was rewarded. After he had subordinated himself to Janeway when his own ship was destroyed, and forced his crew to do the same. Of course, he knew it was the only option, but it hadn't been easy to convince the Maquis to put on those Starfleet uniforms.

So, after everything he had done to help unite the two crews, Janeway and Tuvok had hatched the plan to catch the spy, deciding that it would work best if he were left in the dark. They had left him out so they could use his difficulties with Paris to make the plan more effective. Ever since he had found out the truth, Chakotay had been angry. And ever since Paris had come back on duty, the anger that was simmering in the back of his head had been threatening to boil over into rage.

Ah yes, Paris. He was the real problem. The public embarrassment Chakotay had suffered during Paris's participation in the ruse--the nasty scenes on the bridge, the shouting match in the mess hall--was finally underscored by his performance on Neelix's show. Yes, Paris had apologized to Chakotay on "A Briefing with Neelix," but he had made damn sure in the process that every member of the crew would have no doubt that Chakotay had been left in the dark about the plan to catch the spy. Since the show, Chakotay had felt that people were talking about his lack of authority in the chain of command. No crew member had actually been insubordinate, but he thought they looked at him differently. Some of the Starfleet officers had laughter in their eyes when they addressed him, and the Maquis seemed angry at him. No doubt his former crew felt he was being used by Janeway and Tuvok as a figurehead first officer, just to convince the Maquis to accept their positions on this ship. He felt that way himself.

As he reflected on the part Tom Paris had played in undermining his authority, Chakotay glared at the back of the man's blonde head. The pilot, unaware of the first officer's intense scrutiny, continued with his adjustments to the conn. Suddenly, a voice intruded on Chakotay's angry thoughts.

"Commander, may I speak to you in my ready room?"

A minute later, facing Chakotay across her desk, Captain Janeway continued. "Mr. Chakotay, are you having some sort of problem that I should know about?"

Chakotay met her level gaze. "What do you mean, Captain?"

"I think you know what I mean, Commander. You've been distracted and testy all week. Frankly, a tense first officer makes the entire bridge crew uncomfortable, and much less effective than it should be. You're acting like you have a chip on your shoulder. Today, for instance, when you snapped at Mr. Kim--over what? Nothing, as far as I could tell."

The Commander responded in a low voice, "If I do have a chip on my shoulder, Captain, I think you know how it got there." Chakotay knew he was treading on dangerous ground, but he was too angry to stop himself.

"What are you suggesting, Commander?" asked Janeway in deceptively even tones.

"How am I supposed to go about my duties as _first officer_ of this ship when the entire crew knows that you and your _security_ officer left me out of an important command decision--"

Janeway cut him off. "Commander, is this still about the trap we set for the spy? I have already apologized for leaving you out of that plan. But I believed then, and still do believe, that my decision was warranted. I think your contribution to the ruse was more valuable than it would have been if you had been included in the original plan. I'm sorry if you felt left out--but surely you can see that it was for the good of the ship."

Her crisp words were like a slap in the face. Chakotay tried unsuccessfully to keep the anger from his voice. "All I see, Captain, is that you used me--you went behind my back rather than trust me to contribute knowingly to the mission, and now my authority on this ship is worth nothing."

Lifting a hand to halt Chakotay's words, Janeway broke in sharply, "Stop, Commander, before you go too far." Modulating her voice, she continued. "This is the last time I'll say this. I'm sorry you were left out of the chain of command. I could have handled the situation differently, perhaps, but I truly felt my decision was appropriate. Now it's done and we need to leave it in the past." She paused, as if expecting another outburst from her first officer. After a moment, she leaned forward across her desk and went on.

"You are the first officer on this ship, and I expect you to perform the duties of that position effectively. The bridge crew--no, the crew of the entire ship--is affected by this anger you are carrying around." She continued more gently, "Shift change is in two hours, Chakotay. I'd like you to leave the bridge now, and spend this evening working through these problems. I'm not officially relieving you of duty--merely asking you to take the time to handle your feelings about this situation. I'm sorry we have no ship's counselor, but perhaps spending some time alone will help you collect yourself. B'Elanna tells me she'll have the warp engines ready to go tomorrow, and I'll need my bridge crew functioning too, if we're to get underway. I want you back in here tomorrow, ready to work. Please don't make me have to speak to you about this again."

Swallowing his sharp retort, Chakotay bit off the words, "Yes, Ma'am" and left the ready room. Striding across the bridge to the turbolift, he drew some surprised glances . . . and smirks? He couldn't be sure, but he thought he heard Ensign Cole making a comment about his departure.

 

* * *

 

Tom Paris hardly noticed when Commander Chakotay left the bridge. He was busy at the helm, his thoughts on his own problems.

Ever since he had come back from the Kazon ship a week ago, things had been a little different. At first it had been great--after his interview on Neelix's show, people kept coming up and congratulating him on the success of his mission, asking him questions about his part in the plan. Starfleet personnel who had steered clear of him before wanted to buy him drinks at Sandrine's and listen to him talk about his escape from the Kazons. It felt good to have people looking up to him again, praising his work. It was almost like it used to be back at the Academy when he was the leader of Nova Squadron and every kid on campus wanted to be his best friend. And the best part, this time, was that everyone knew Janeway and Tuvok had trusted him to carry out their secret plan, and that he had lived up to their expectations.

Lost in the heady atmosphere of celebrity, it had taken Paris a day or two to realize that some members of the crew--most of them former Maquis--were giving him a wider berth than usual, if that was possible. Just yesterday he had come into the mess hall with Harry, and two whole tables of former Maquis crew members had cleared out before he got his food and sat down. Even Tom couldn't ignore the angry looks they had given him as they pushed past him to leave the room. Tom had brought it up over dinner, but Harry didn't seem to know why people were acting like this. Or maybe he just didn't want to tell him. He needed to ask B'Elanna.

For most of the week he had been back, B'Elanna had been busy day and night in main engineering. He had hardly seen her at all. After trying for a few days, he had finally cornered her outside her quarters late last night.

"B'Elanna! I haven't seen you in days! How's it going in engineering?"

B'Elanna looked exhausted. Dark circles under her eyes were proof of the sleepless nights of the past week. "Oh, hi, Tom. We finally got the warp coils realigned, and we've stabilized the secondary distribution grid. Everything's just about back online now and ready to go." B'Elanna stifled a yawn and rubbed the back of her neck. "I can't believe how long it's taken to check all the systems Jonas worked with. It'll probably be one more day before we complete all the tests . . . " Her words trailed off into a yawn.

"Listen, B'Elanna, I need to talk to you. Can I come in for a minute?"

"I've got to get to bed, Tom. I can hardly stand up, much less talk. Can't we meet for breakfast in the morning?" B'Elanna was tired, but suddenly she seemed evasive, too. Tom had a feeling that she knew what he was going to ask her, and she didn't want to have to talk to him about the way the Maquis were treating him. Could _B'Elanna_ be avoiding him? B'Elanna never avoided anything; she believed in speaking her mind. Tom felt his confidence slipping.

"Sure, B'Elanna. Get some sleep. I'll see you in the morning." He walked away, confused. B'Elanna was one of his best friends. Surely she wasn't angry with him too. _No, she's just exhausted. Stop being so insecure._ Tom reassured himself; after all, he would see her in the morning.

But this morning, B'Elanna hadn't shown up in the mess hall. When Tom called her over the comm-channel, she told him she had overslept and was headed straight for engineering. His heart sank as he realized that B'Elanna _was_ avoiding him. Why?

Now, with the ship moving at impulse power, he had had time to worry about this problem all day on the bridge. Why would the Maquis be treating him like this? The attitude that he felt from some of them was almost worse than it had been when they first came aboard after the destruction of their ship. Of course the Maquis had been furious to find him aboard Voyager--most of them had thought he was a Starfleet spy when he was in the Maquis anyway. Back then, he hadn't cared what they thought of him, but over the last year some of them had become his friends. That only made it worse now.

Could they be angry that he had exposed Jonas? No, that didn't make any sense. Seska had tricked all of them and they hated her; her former Maquis comrades should be as happy as anyone else to have had her accomplice exposed. Maybe they were jealous that he had been chosen to act as the bait rather than one of them. But surely they understood that Seska would come after him because of his knowledge of the ship's technology and flight systems. He was the most logical choice to carry out the Captain's plan.

Paris sighed in frustration. He couldn't figure out why he was catching all this attitude. He decided to put it out of his mind and get back to work. _Fuck it. I did what the captain wanted. That should be enough for anyone on this ship!_

His mind wholly occupied by his work and his worries, it was no wonder Paris didn't notice the little drama behind him as Chakotay left his shift two hours early.

 

* * *

 

 Still seething, Chakotay directed the turbolift toward his quarters. Even if the Captain hadn't officially relieved him of duty, she had asked him to leave the bridge. Just another indication that she would rather run the ship without him. _Whatever made me think I could be happy again on a Starfleet ship?_ As he exited the turbolift on the level of his quarters, Chakotay noticed the wary, questioning looks he was getting from the members of the crew. He realized how he must look--off duty during his shift, his face dark with fury. He forced himself to control his angry scowl and present a calmer exterior.

By the time he reached the quiet darkness of his own room, his self-control had begun to take hold; the anger had dulled to an empty ache. More rational thoughts began to creep into his mind. Even in his anger, he knew the Captain hadn't left him out of the plan for any personal reasons. He knew that over the past year the entire crew had come to respect him; why was he so paranoid about the threat to his authority? And how had he let himself get so out of control on duty? He winced mentally as he remembered snapping at Ensign Kim . . . and the things he had said to the Captain. No wonder Janeway had asked him to leave the bridge. Perhaps she was right; maybe he could use this time to collect his thoughts and work through these distracting feelings.

He checked the computer for an empty holodeck and entered himself into the schedule for a two hour block. It might be easier to concentrate there than in his quarters; he could run his program of the Arizona desert to aid his meditation. Before heading out, he stripped off his uniform and pulled on a pair of loose pants and a comfortable shirt.

 

* * *

 

 When shift change rolled around two hours later, Paris had finished his work on the helm. If the warp drives were ready tomorrow, he would be too. "Ready for dinner, Harry?"

Harry was still at ops, frustrated. "No, Tom. These systems are so slow. It's taking me even longer to get this done than I thought it would. And I really want to run all these tests before we get underway. This is going to take me at least another thirty minutes."

Tom knew it would probably be longer than that, but he didn't bother to suggest that the ops officer coming on duty could finish the diagnostic. Sometimes Harry was just too dedicated to his work. "Okay, Harry. Well, I'm going. Come by my quarters later if you want some company."

It didn't take him long to eat. The mess hall was all but empty, whether due to ongoing ship repairs or Neelix's latest creation Tom wasn't sure. Dinner was something that would have looked like mashed potatoes . . . if it hadn't been purple. It tasted something like liver, and Tom didn't even want to hear where it had come from. He ate what he could and headed for his quarters and a long evening alone.

As he exited the turbolift and turned toward his door, he met Ensign Jackson and Crewman Dalby, two former Maquis crewmembers, coming down the hall. When they saw Paris, they glanced at each other meaningfully and slowed their pace, taking up more room in the corridor so it would be harder for him to pass.

With B'Elanna's evasion, Harry's decision to work late, Neelix's culinary nightmare, and the prospect of a boring evening at home alone, Tom was feeling irritable. It didn't bother him that Dalby and Jackson looked like they wanted to pick a fight. Maybe he would at least find out the reason behind all the attitude he had been getting from the Maquis. He squared his shoulders and stopped in the hall, ready for anything.

 

* * *

 

 After two hours in Arizona--or as close as he could get to it in the Delta Quadrant--Chakotay left the holodeck. He had hiked through the desert near his childhood home and tried to meditate. Usually, physical exertion left his mind tranquil; after a strenuous walk he could focus much more easily. Today, however, his unsettled thoughts had been hard to calm. No matter how he tried to focus, the negativity that had been building up over the past week kept intruding on his meditations. He had made no progress until he had acknowledged his anger at the Captain's easy dismissal of his feelings of betrayal. Finally, he accepted her actions rationally, although her lack of confidence in him still stung. It would take awhile for that feeling to go away. _At least I can speak to her now without insulting her. I hope_ he thought wryly.

But the memory of Lieutenant Paris's insulting behavior still brought his blood to a boil. That problem would just have to wait until another time for resolution.

Even if the hike hadn't been completely effective in helping him meditate, it had left him relaxed, warm and sweaty. He headed back to quarters for a shower and a change of clothes. As he entered his corridor, Chakotay heard a voice raised in anger.

" . . . you don't belong here. You weren't good enough for Starfleet, you weren't _smart_ enough for the Maquis, and we don't need you to save us, you arrogant little prick." Commander Chakotay quickened his pace to find the source of the argument.

He rounded the corner in time to see Lieutenant Paris strike Ensign Jackson with such force that the former Maquis fell into the wall and promptly slumped to the deck. Paris turned to Crewman Dalby with a glare that dared him to make the slightest move. Recovering, Jackson kicked Paris's feet from under him and they were on each other, rolling in the corridor.

When Chakotay saw the two men fighting, he felt the surge of rage return to his brain and knew he was about to do something irrational. He didn't try to stop himself. It was time to deal with Mr. Paris after all.

Suddenly, Paris felt himself being lifted from the grasp of his opponent and thrown against the wall; only then did he hear and see the Commander shouting in his face, "Stand down, Lieutenant!" Ignoring the order, he lunged for Jackson again. Chakotay grabbed him by the neck and yanked him down the corridor, leaving the bemused Ensign and Crewman behind. Bent over at he waist, Paris gasped and cursed with each breath through the fingers constricting his throat. He heard the slight hiss of a door opening and was flung into a room. He was in the Commander's quarters. Paris scrambled to his feet, panting, and focused only on Commander Chakotay.

In the dim light Paris could see that Chakotay's face was a smooth, calm mask--but his eyes were dark with danger and unresolved fury. The big man stood between Paris and the door, light on his feet despite his bulk. The Lieutenant thought it was unlikely that he could get past Chakotay and just leave; but then, he didn't really want to leave. After a week of getting the cold shoulder from Chakotay and his Maquis crew, Tom was about ready for some explanations. He wanted to find out why he was being treated so unjustly. He was probably asking for more trouble, but what the hell.

"Permission to speak freely, _sir_." The Commander nodded curtly. He would listen to what Paris had to say for himself, but he had a few things he wanted to say in return.

Paris wasted no time in getting to the point. "What the fuck do you want from me, Commander?"

"An explanation, Lieutenant. Do you think it's appropriate to fight fellow crewmen? You should have handled the situation better." Chakotay's voice was low, controlled.

Paris was incredulous. "If I'm not mistaken, there were three of us out in the hall--why am _I_ the only one being reprimanded? Because the other two were Maquis, right?"

"You were the senior officer, Lieutenant, and I believe you took the first shot. When are you going to learn to accept responsibility for your actions?"

"Well, Starfleet regulations require that you call security and take _all_ of us into custody, Commander, so I don't think you handled the situation any better than I did." Feeling persecuted, Tom began to rant. "Why am I being singled out again? Who the hell made you my personal jailer? You've been on my back ever since I came back last week and . . . " He saw the first officer's eyes grow even darker at the memory. As Paris remembered his own part in the plan and Chakotay's behavior since his return, his blue eyes lit up with gradual understanding. " . . . oh, I get it. Feeling a little left out, Commander?"

Chakotay, angry that Paris had figured it out at last, snarled, "This isn't about how I feel, Mr. Paris."

Paris ignored his denial, intent on his discovery. "That's it, isn't it, Commander? Tuvok deceived you, Seska deceived you, and now I did. Me--the lowlife of the ship--in on a plan you knew nothing about."

"The ruse has nothing to do with what happened just now in the hall, Lieutenant." Chakotay tried to steer the conversation back to the present. He knew if Paris kept baiting him his anger would blossom into rage. _Why did I bring him in here?_

"No, I think it has everything to do with what happened in the hall--and with the way you and all the other Maquis have been treating me. It's not my fault the Captain left you out. You have no right to blame me for my part in the plan. I did it to help Voyager!"

Chakotay had had enough. "Oh, really, Mr. Paris? You didn't do it to feed your own ego? You think you can be a hero by lying. Where has deception gotten you before, _Lieutenant_?" He didn't say it, but Paris knew Chakotay was refering to the court martial. The sneering emphasis on his rank was meant to remind him of what he had lost by covering up his responsibility for the crash on Caldik Prime. Paris felt heat rising in his face at the insult.

"Fuck you, Commander. I already apologized to you in front of the whole crew. What more do you want from me?"

Chakotay's voice was dangerously low. "I forgot to thank you for that piece of shit apology, Lieutenant. In front of the entire ship, no less. You enjoyed that, didn't you? Telling the crew how I was just a jester for the court." He spat the words out.

Paris laughed harshly. "It just doesn't matter, does it? Whatever I do isn't good enough for you. Well, I have the Captain's respect; I can live without yours, Commander. Besides," he sneered, stepping closer, "you lost your ship and now you're losing your command. Why should anyone care what you think?"

Chakotay clenched his fists as Paris stopped only a short distance away, snarling into the first officer's face. "You're such a joke. Everyone on this ship sees how the Captain keeps you tethered with smiles and winks, but when it comes down to getting the job done, she knows who she can trust. And apparently, it's _not_ you."

As the Lieutenant panted into Chakotay's face, trying to regain his breath after this outburst, the Commander's resolution to maintain his composure finally gave way completely. All he wanted now was to wipe that smug, knowing look off Tom Paris's face. Paris didn't see him lift his hand; he had barely heard Chakotay whisper "My turn" when he felt his head snap to the side and an explosion of hot blood in his mouth.

The Commander's backhanded blow split his lower lip and sent him spinning backwards into the darkened room. As he recovered his balance, the taste of his own blood fueled his fury and Paris whirled back and flew at Chakotay with raised fists. The Commander, still enraged, blocked these blows and wasted no time in throwing his full weight into a vicious punch to the pilot's abdomen. This blow took Tom's breath away and left a fiery pit in his stomach.

Doubled over in pain and panic, for a moment he was back on New Zealand. Then the adrenaline pumped through him as his body, not his mind, remembered how to counter the attack of a larger and stronger adversary. Throwing his shoulder into Chakotay's hip, Paris caught the big man off balance and pushed him hard, managing to step out of Chakotay's reach as he stumbled into the wall.

Before Chakotay completely regained his balance, Paris moved forward quickly to punch him in the face. He knew he had only a moment to strike before the first officer regained the advantage. As his fist connected with the Commander's cheekbone, Paris felt the sickening yet satisfying sensation of skin splitting beneath his knuckles. He pulled back to strike again at the cut he had made just below Chakotay's left eye, but the first officer was faster. Chakotay whirled around to grasp his shoulders and slam him back against the wall. Digging his fingers into the slim, muscular shoulders, he shook Paris backwards and forwards, slamming him into the wall again and again as if for punctuation.

Teeth rattling inside his aching head, Paris struggled to break free, pushing his hands against Chakotay's big shoulders. Finally he managed to gasp out, between hits against the wall, "What'll you . . . do . . . Commander . . . Kill me? . . . How will you . . . explain . . . to the Captain?" Gradually, the Commander slowed his violent shaking of the younger man, but did not ease the painful grip on his shoulders.

Held against the wall by the length and weight of the first officer's body, Paris tried to push him away from his chest. "I thought you were above getting angry at a nobody like me . . . a liar . . . a traitor. I thought nothing I could do or say could touch you. Remember?" He gasped the words out through clenched teeth, hot breath hissing into Chakotay's strained face. "Where's your famous self-control now?"

They stood, face to face, chest to chest; Paris bleeding from the cut in his lip, Chakotay from the gash below his eye; blue eyes taunting black ones; the big first officer pressing the Lieutenant backwards into the wall.

As the meaning of Paris's words gradually penetrated the haze of anger in Chakotay's brain, the Commander fought to regain his control. Finally, he relaxed his grip on the younger man's shoulders and became aware of his own body's response to the exhileration of combat. The rage that had been building in him since Paris's return to the ship had been released into pure adrenaline while he fought the younger man. Now he returned to himself, panting in ragged breaths, still leaning against Paris's own heaving chest. Chakotay felt the muscles twitching in his legs and arms, and the tenderness of his bruised knuckles, and the heat in his belly that seemed to emanate through the rest of his body. Unconsciously, he knew he was hard--the sheer pleasure of releasing his pent up emotions was enough to cause that.

Still pinned between the Commander and the wall, Paris felt Chakotay's erection digging into his groin. His own penis swelled in response to the unexpected contact. Disbelieving his senses, he looked into Chakotay's eyes, only centimeters from his own, and saw arousal mixed with the slowly cooling rage. In a burst of angry comprehension, Paris knew what the Commander wanted before the Commander even knew it himself.

"So, is _that_ what you really want, Commander?" He hissed the question out angrily, tauntingly, his voice still hoarse with gasping for breath.

Chakotay looked at him warily. What did Paris mean? What he wanted was . . .

"To fuck me. That's what you want." Paris spit the accusation into Chakotay's face, more a challenge than an invitation.

Chakotay wanted to speak, to deny his arousal. He opened his mouth to say "No." But he felt the length of Paris's erection pressing against his own, and the heat of the young man's hard chest, and the word died on his lips. As angry as he still was, Chakotay found Paris's words arousing. Suddenly, the course of the argument had changed. Both of them knew it.

Still staring into Chakotay's face, Tom leaned his head forward, slowly closing the gap between them until they were almost nose to nose. For a moment Chakotay thought the Lieutenant was going to kiss him. Then, staring into his eyes, Paris whispered harshly, "That's why you brought me in here, into your quarters, isn't it, Commander? You don't get much, do you?" Ducking his head to the side, he bit Chakotay through his shirt, just above the collarbone, at the base of his neck. The bite was not gentle. Chakotay felt the sharp teeth close on his neck and pull back to pinch him. It was a challenge--would he admit that he wanted the blond pilot to touch him this way, or would he just pound him into the deck with his fists? Paris was taking a chance that the Commander would accept his challenge.

Chakotay closed his eyes and groaned inwardly as he felt Paris's teeth on his neck. _What the hell am I doing?_ He released Paris's shoulders and began to move away from the younger man. As he shifted his weight away, no longer trapping Paris against the wall, he felt the man's arms come up around his body. Surprisingly strong hands gripped his shoulders and Paris roughly turned Chakotay so that his back was to the wall. Wondering what was coming next, but seemingly unable to resist, Chakotay let Paris hold him there in a reversal of their positions of the moment before.

Pressing the Commander against the wall, Tom leaned forward and again bit him through the shirt, harder than before. Chakotay drew in a ragged breath and leaned his head back to the wall as Paris started moving down his chest. When he reached the sensitive nipples he bit at them through the soft material, feeling Chakotay's erection jump between their bodies in response. Leaving the shirt buttoned, Paris continued to nip his way sharply down Chakotay's body until at last he knelt before him.

Glancing up at the Commander's dazed face, he leaned forward, turned his head, and wrapped his mouth around the first officer's throbbing penis through the material of the loose trousers. As he rubbed his mouth and chin roughly over the cloth restraining Chakotay's erection, he reached up and pulled at the drawstring holding the pants at the Commander's waist. Pressing himself back into the wall to keep his balance, his hands curled loosely at his sides, Chakotay didn't stop him.

A moment later, the pants were at Chakotay's ankles and Paris was running his tongue over the hot, hard penis. He gripped the Commander's balls firmly in one hand as he licked from base to tip, tasting the slight saltiness of the shaft and scraping his teeth against the smooth head. With his other hand, he squeezed at the base of the thick cock while his tongue teased into the slit at the crown. With a groan, Chakotay brought his hands up to hold Paris's head and thrust his erection deep into the wet, open mouth.

The Commander's penis was larger than the average, like the Commander himself, but the kneeling man wanted to take every inch. Tom struggled to use his tongue on the head as his lips stretched around the thick shaft; he felt the cut in his lip as he opened wider to let the Commander slide in. He sucked hard, pulling the head into the top of his throat. As Tom swallowed Chakotay's slick penis he ran both hands up the backs of the muscular thighs and gripped the smooth ass tightly, holding on as if to ground himself. Panting shallowly above him, Chakotay buried his hands in blonde hair, firmly guiding Paris's head to accept the deep thrusts.

Chakotay felt himself engulfed in wet warmth as he fucked the pilot's eager mouth. It had been a long time since he had done this . . . too long. He had forgotten what a rush it was: the sensation of someone sucking at his most sensitive part; the sight of someone kneeling before him, wanting him so badly, offering him a mouth that was accommodating yet demanding; the control he felt over the situation when he held the person's head and set the rhythm himself. He looked down at the pilot's head through half-lowered eyelids, noticing the hungry look on his face as he sucked the rigid penis back into his throat, somehow keeping himself from gagging. It was good to see Tom Paris like this . . . it felt good, too . . . it was good to feel like he was in control. Chakotay gripped the man's head more firmly, pumping deliberately in and out of the voracious mouth.

Paris could feel Chakotay's self-control in the measured strokes and the heavy hands holding his head. The tension in the Commander's body was coiled like the tightest spring, but he would have to be forced to release it. _Gods, what does it take to make him let go? Here I am on my knees with this big cock down my throat, and he's in perfect control. He's the one who wanted this. I'm going to make him admit it._ With that thought, Paris began kneading Chakotay's ass, pulling the firm cheeks apart and lightly running his fingertips up and down the warm cleft. Chakotay's thrusts became deeper and more rapid, his balls pressing against Paris's chin as the head of his penis snaked its way further into the back of his throat. Despite this quickening, the Commander's movements were still controlled and even. Then, unsure of what to expect in response, Tom quickly pressed an index finger deep into Chakotay's anus.

With a startled grunt, Chakotay tensed and roughly pulled Paris away from his erection. Tom's finger popped out of Chakotay's ass as the Commander grabbed him by the shoulders and threw him backwards onto the floor. Paris skidded onto his back and elbows on the carpet and looked up at the Commander towering over him wearing only his shirt, fists clenched, jaw twitching, his throbbing hard-on looking even larger than it had felt when it was in Tom's mouth. The look on Chakotay's face was unreadable, a mix of desire, anger, and something even wilder than either of these. The wildness was mirrored in Tom's eyes as he looked up, wondering what was going to happen next. _Oh, shit . . . is he going to beat me . . . or fuck me?_ Either way, he knew he was going to be sore tomorrow. As the moment lengthened, Paris warily began to push himself back, away from the Commander, when the tension in Chakotay's face snapped and with a growl he was on top of Paris, straddling his body on his knees, his big hands at the Lieutenant's throat.

Flashing back to their fight, Paris instinctively grabbed at Chakotay's hands, but instead of blows, he felt the zipper of his uniform being ripped from its seam and his turtleneck being torn from neck to hem. Without words, Chakotay stripped off the shredded uniform and yanked down the pilot's shorts. Equally ferocious, Paris tore Chakotay's shirt open and pushed it off his muscled shoulders. Struggling out of his shirt, the Commander muttered, "Is this what you wanted, Lieutenant?"

In his aroused state, Tom admired the Commander's body straddling his own. The wide shoulders, the warm golden-brown chest, and the narrow waist all invited his touch. But now it was too late for that--he had wanted to make Chakotay lose control, and he had succeeded. The Commander wasn't in the mood to wait. Still on his knees, Chakotay raised himself slightly and flipped Paris over, onto his stomach. His heart hammering in anticipation, Paris pulled himself up to his hands and knees as Chakotay shifted to kneel between his bent legs.

Paris wondered if Chakotay would take him without a lubricant. His body tensed at the thought. Then Tom felt Chakotay's finger smoothing thick drops of sticky fluid from the head of his penis onto and then into his anus. Chakotay shoved one finger into him, roughly loosening the tight passage; seconds later he added another finger, twisting them into Paris's ass for a moment. As the fingers fucked in and out of him, Paris willed himself to relax, knowing that this was all the preparation he was getting. After a few more moments, Chakotay pulled his fingers out and grabbed him by the hips, pulling him backwards; then, slowly but firmly, Chakotay drove all of his penis into Tom Paris.

At first, as the Commander pressed forward, Paris thought he would be ripped apart like the material of his uniform; as Chakotay drove deeper, it felt like his ass was on fire inside. He was afraid he was going to cry out from the pain as his body gave way to the entry of the intruder. But when the Commander was all the way in, balls pressed against Paris's cheeks, he paused for just a moment, relishing the sensation of the pilot's narrow passage squeezing his swollen penis. Paris knew this was only the calm before the storm. And as he felt Chakotay's cock throbbing inside his body, hot and hard, his own arousal returned, like flames leaping inside him, searing the pain away. Quickly becoming accustomed to the heat and size filling him, Paris braced himself and threw his hips back against the Commander, taking him even deeper, provoking the rough motion he knew was coming.

It was as if this was a signal that Chakotay had been waiting for. Still gripping Paris's hips tightly, he pulled back, almost pulling all the way out, and eagerly pushed himself back in, to the hilt. The pressure on his penis was delicious, the passage so tight. He groaned in reckless abandon as his strokes took on a driving rhythm.

The rough motion of the Commander's body forced Tom's elbows to buckle. He lowered his head onto his folded hands on the carpet, his hips in the air, his own erection pointing along his belly toward his navel. He had been with men before, of course, even before prison, but never before had he been so hard while he was being fucked. His straining erection was almost painful. The idea of Chakotay kneeling behind him and taking him like this--and the way it felt--was so arousing he thought he might come without a touch to his penis. His entire body shaking with the momentum of the Commander's movements, Paris moved his ass in response to the thrusts. As he felt the thick cock push into his body, he pressed back as far as he could; then, as Chakotay pulled back on each stroke, he tightened his muscles around him and rocked forward. The hands gripping his hips pinched his skin as the Commander responded to his urging motions.

Kneeling behind the Lieutenant, Chakotay watched through hooded eyes as the young man shuddered beneath his onslaught. The sight of Paris's smooth, muscled back, his fair skin, and his tousled blonde head resting submissively on the floor drove Chakotay to an even more heightened state of arousal. He felt the blood surge in his erection and he quickened the motion of his hips. As he did so, he heard Paris whisper "Please . . ." and knew he was dying for release. Leaning forward slightly, Chakotay reached around Paris's hip and grabbed his cock. Paris moaned loudly as Chakotay began jerking him expertly in time with the deep thrusts.

The friction of Chakotay's hand on his penis was almost unbearable to Tom. After only a few strokes, he was bucking backwards, out of control. _Oh god oh god oh my god ohmygod ohhh_ The heat in his belly seemed to gather and grow, until it had to escape somehow; Chakotay's fist on his erection drew it out of him. Tom began to come, crying out in desperate rapture, his wild movements matched by Chakotay's increasingly rapid thrusts. Paris's body jerked and spasmed as he came over the carpet beneath him, Chakotay's strong grasp milking the last drops out of his cock.

Spent, Paris collapsed forward into the stickiness of his own semen. Behind him, Chakotay followed, still inside him. Intent only on his own release, Chakotay continued to pound into him, his eyes tightly shut, his teeth clenched, and his fingers digging roughly into Tom's shoulders. Finally, fire exploded in Chakotay's brain and he came deep inside Tom in three giant strokes, throwing his head back and bellowing into the younger man's ear.

Gasping for breath, the two men lay on the floor, Chakotay crushing Paris as he slowly shrank inside him. With the Commander flattening him, Paris could hardly breathe. Finally, Chakotay rolled to the side of the younger man, pulling out of him slowly, and they lay together in dazed silence. Side by side, yet not touching, they tried to catch their breath.

The sound of their panting filled the room. Still on his stomach, Paris turned his head to look at the first officer's dark profile and felt for the first time the horrible absurdity of the situation. A nervous giggle bubbled into his throat and he tried to swallow it down. Usually, after sex, he cracked a joke to break the uncomfortable feeling of intimacy. It was one of his many methods of emotional self-preservation, and it always worked. But for the life of him, he couldn't think of anything to say just at this moment. For once, Tom Paris was at a loss for words. What the hell had just happened? Yeah, they had had sex, but it was nothing like any sex Paris had ever had before. He had never been so angry and so aroused at the same time, and he had never wanted it like that before, so rough and hard and fast. It scared him that he had wanted it like that with Chakotay . . . gods, with the fucking _first officer_.

Chakotay lay on his back, still catching his breath, eyes closed, face calm. To Paris it looked like he was asleep, except maybe for his heaving chest, and the cut under his left eye that had started bleeding again during the final moments of their rough encounter. But Chakotay wasn't asleep. Like Paris, he was searching for some understanding of what had happened, of what he had done. His smooth facade was as much a method of self-protection as was Paris's desire to make a joke. What could he say to this man?

As Chakotay finally stirred and opened his eyes, turning his head to look at Paris, the Lieutenant realized he was staring and jumped back as if he had been burned. He was afraid of what he would see in the dark eyes. Disdain? Disgust? Anger? He didn't want to find out, and he didn't want to find out what the Commander would say, either. He sat up, carefully keeping his eyes on the floor.

Chakotay leaned up on an elbow. "Paris . . . " He didn't know how to continue.

He couldn't even call him Tom. "Forget it, Commander. You got what you wanted." Paris spoke without looking up, feeling behind him for his uniform. He had to escape. Right now.

Chakotay wanted to protest, but he knew he _had_ wanted it. The question was, _why_?

Backing away from the Commander, Paris grabbed his ruined uniform and pulled it on. The pants of the jumpsuit were still whole, but the top had been torn apart at the seam. Well, he would just have to escape as well as he could. He didn't have far to go, at least. His quarters were just down the hall. Holding the top of his uniform together across his sticky chest, he ran out the door of the Commander's quarters without another word.

Chakotay lay back on his floor, his arm covering his eyes. What had he done? _Why did I ever bring him in here?_

 

As Chakotay woke for bridge duty, stiff and sore, he felt the warmth of a body beside him in his bed. Somehow, he was not surprised to open his eyes to find Tom Paris lying next to him, asleep, the sheet pulled halfway up over his naked chest. Chakotay propped his head up on his hand, looking into the pilot's sleeping face. Blonde hair curled over his smooth brow, blonder lashes lay on pale cheeks, and his lips parted slightly to allow the slow, deep breaths of repose. Flushed with sleep, he reminded Chakotay of an Arizona desert sunrise, all pink and white and golden. The sight of the relaxed face, free for once of its usual guarded and sardonic look, brought home to Chakotay how much of this man's self- assured behavior was an act, and how much of himself he kept below the surface. Suddenly, Chakotay felt sorry that he hadn't noticed the sweetness in Tom's face before. The pilot shifted in his sleep. Chakotay's pulse quickened as he reached out a hand to stroke the blonde head, and as he did

His chrono-alarm went off, telling him he had twenty minutes to get to the bridge. As Chakotay woke with a start, alone in his bed, he was aware of his heart pounding inside his chest and his breaths coming in shallow gasps. He woke with the uncanny feeling that someone was in his quarters. Scanning the room quickly, he saw nothing but his own clothes scattered on the floor by the door, and the sight, along with his aching muscles, reminded him of what had happened the night before. He grimaced at the thought of what he had done. Yet there was something more . . . then he gradually remembered his strange dream of waking up with Tom Paris in his bed.

Pulling himself out of bed with an oath, Chakotay tried to put it out of his mind as he got ready for duty. The dream, and how it had made him feel, was more disturbing than what had actually happened between him and Paris. Chakotay might be able to explain the sex to himself in somewhat rational terms--he had been excited by the fight, he had let himself get out of control, and Paris had clearly wanted the encounter to happen (after all, he had made the first move)--but why had he dreamed of how innocent, how _human_ Tom Paris looked while sleeping? That didn't make any sense . . . and, despite the importance he usually placed on what his sleeping mind revealed, he didn't even _want_ to try to figure out what this dream meant.

Wincing at a strained back muscle, he leaned over to pull on his boots. He pushed the dream out of his mind. It would be hard enough to face the bridge crew--the Captain--without dwelling on the thought of what the conn officer would look like sleeping naked in his bed.

 

* * *

 

The warp drives were fixed. Paris was glad to have an excuse to work. He had hardly slept, and he knew he looked like hell when he left his quarters for the bridge. He hadn't been able to bring himself to go to sickbay and have the cut on his lip healed . . . he didn't want the doctor to note the recent sexual activity in a tricorder scan. The bruises from the fight, the carpet burns, his sore knees and elbows--all of these were uncomfortable, but at least no one could see them under his uniform. The cut in his lip felt like a brand, a mark that showed the world what he had done last night, and whom he had been with.

He had been awake all night worrying about what would happen when he saw Chakotay on the bridge. He knew the first officer had wanted the fight--he could tell that when he took him alone to his quarters--but had he really wanted what had come afterward? Chakotay had been hard before he had, but he would never have made the first move. What if the Commander told the Captain that Tom had thrown himself at him? Would she even believe that Chakotay had _wanted_ him to? He worried about what she would think of him now. Would she still respect him as an officer? Hell, would she throw him in the brig for insubordination?

Tom wanted to arrive early so he could slip into his seat at the helm before Chakotay appeared. He had a crazy idea that he could avoid ever looking into the first officer's face again. All he had to do was make sure he always got there early and left late. But when he arrived on the bridge, Chakotay was already in his seat, facing away from Tom as he emerged from the turbolift. As he stepped toward the conn, Janeway took one look at his face and asked him to come to her ready room.

"Have you been fighting, Mr. Paris?"

He didn't know what to say. What did she know? He couldn't tell her what had happened.

She prompted him. "Is it true that you were seen fighting with two other crewmen last night?"

Two other . . . of course, Dalby and Jackson. "Yes, Captain. Well, no. It wasn't much of a fight, really. Commander Chakotay broke it up before it ever got started." Janeway looked at him sharply as he mentioned Chakotay's name. _Oh gods, she knows . . ._

"Lieutenant, do you have any . . . complaint . . . with Mr. Chakotay?" She was fishing. She didn't know.

"No, Ma'am." His voice faltered. He couldn't trust himself to say more. Did he have a complaint? He had been just as angry as the first officer last night . . . and just as aroused. He had been more than willing. But he was afraid of what the encounter would do to his position on the ship, at the helm. He wanted the Captain to trust him, to know that he could do his job. He steadied his voice. "No, Captain. I'm glad he broke up the fight. I was just frustrated and tired, and he stopped me from making a big mistake. I have no complaint against him."

Janeway didn't look satisfied, but she seemed unwilling to press the matter further. "Very well, Mr. Paris. Dismissed."

As he left the ready room, Tom breathed a sigh of relief. She hadn't pursued the question of the fight, so the Maquis must not have filed charges against him. Well, they had started it. Without meaning to, he glanced toward the first officer's chair and found himself looking at the solemn profile. He was stunned to see the cut he had made on Chakotay's face, there, just below his left eye and his tattoo. He had assumed the Commander would find a way to heal himself. No wonder the Captain had asked him if he had a complaint. As Tom stared at the cut, Chakotay slowly turned to face him. There was no anger or disgust in his eyes. He looked evenly at Tom and nodded a brief greeting, then turned back to his work at the console on his chair. Reeling with surprise, Tom went to the helm and laid in the course the Captain called out to him.

 

* * *

 

As he surreptitiously watched Paris cross the bridge, Chakotay thought about his own conversation with the Captain. He had apologized for his behavior of the day before, and meant it. He knew he needed to let go of his anger so that they could work together again. She seemed relieved that he was back to normal, under control. He was a little surprised that she hadn't asked about the cut on his face, but he appreciated her understanding of his need for privacy. Apparently, Paris hadn't told her anything more than he had, because she followed the pilot out of the ready room and took her seat beside Chakotay, with only a searching look at his face. Then she got the ship underway. It was good to be moving again.

The return of the bridge routine helped Chakotay stay focused on his duties. He was careful to praise Harry Kim for his very thorough report on the communications diagnostic, and things seemed to be back to normal with the rest of the bridge crew. The only difference was that today, whenever he looked at the viewscreen, he first noticed the back of the pilot's head as he worked at the helm. And the back of the pilot's head reminded him of kneeling behind Tom Paris, taking him roughly, and coming harder and louder than he had since he was in his twenties.

 

* * *

 

That evening, Tom met Harry and B'Elanna at Sandrine's. He just didn't feel like being alone. It had been a hard day for him at the conn, feeling the first officer's eyes on him from time to time, straining to hear what he was saying to the Captain, and noticing every time Chakotay got up from his chair to walk across the bridge. Tom didn't think he could stand an evening alone in his quarters, so he had changed into civvies after dinner and convinced Harry to go out. And Harry had asked B'Elanna, so the three of them lounged around the pool table, chatting and playing.

An air of festival filled the holodeck; everyone was excited to be cruising at full power again. The week of repairs had put a damper on the spirits of the entire crew, and Sandrine's was packed with people who wanted to relax. Only Tom seemed subdued, and his friends noticed.

"Hey, Tom, what's the matter? You look like your heart's been broken." Harry was worried about his friend. "Let me get you another synth-ale."

"Yeah, Tom. You're really out of it. Don't you even want to _try_ to beat me at this game tonight? This is just too easy." B'Elanna tried to needle him into taking an interest in her run of the table, but Tom didn't seem to care that he had lost the last two games.

"I'm just tired, guys." Clearly, Tom didn't want to talk about whatever was bothering him. As Harry wandered over to the bar, Tom abruptly changed the subject. "B'Elanna, remember the other night when I wanted to ask you about something?" B'Elanna looked up from her shot and nodded. "I wanted to know if the Maquis were angry at me for some reason. Ever since I came back from the Kazon I've been getting a strange feeling from them. You know what I mean?"

Sinking her shot, B'Elanna straightened and walked around the table toward him. "Yes, I know. They were angry with you, Tom, and some still are. Didn't you get into a fight with one of them last night?" She pointed at the cut in his lip.

"Actually, it was two." _Actually, there was a third one._

Tom continued, thoughtful, "I guess they were mad about Chakotay's role in the plan to catch the spy. Or, rather, his _lack_ of a role in the plan."

B'Elanna laid down her cue, startled that Tom knew the real reason the Maquis had been so upset. "How did you know?"

"I'm not stupid, B'Elanna," Tom bristled. "It makes sense. Especially after what I said on Neelix's show. It took me awhile to realize how that must have sounded to the Maquis, but I can see now that I caused some problems. Are you mad at me too?"

"I was at first . . . but you know, I could understand why you did it. I saw how glad you were to be included in the Captain's plan. And I know what it feels like to get a second chance to prove yourself. After I thought about it, I knew you weren't trying to make Chakotay look stupid." Her eyes were understanding, and Tom again realized how similar he and B'Elanna were. They both cared a lot more about the opinions of others than they liked to admit.

Tom leaned back against the table. "I hope I can set things right with the other Maquis."

B'Elanna turned back to the game. "I think this'll die down, Tom. Chakotay's a good leader, and people know that. And it wasn't your idea to leave him out. I think the Maquis were really mad at the Captain, in a way, but they were taking it out on you. You're much more accessible when it comes to fighting, you know." She grinned. "You were just lucky _I_ was busy in engineering for six days. It gave me time to cool down."

B'Elanna's explanation made him feel a little better, and when Harry returned with the drinks Tom was able to join the game, laughing and playing with his friends.

A few minutes later, Chakotay entered the holodeck. The sight of the first officer in Sandrine's was unusual at any time, but tonight his entrance caused a sensation. Dalby and Jackson had told many of the Maquis about his breaking up the fight in the hall last night. They had seen his unconventional treatment of Tom Paris as a declaration of his authority. Both Starfleet and Maquis had noticed the cut on his face and had wondered what had caused it. Although nobody knew what had really happened, Chakotay was at the center of the ship's gossip.

A buzz went up around the room as he moved toward the pool table. The light over the table kept Tom from noticing the first officer until he was right next to him. When he saw him standing there in his red and black uniform, Tom muffed his shot, sending the cue ball sailing off the table.

"Lieutenant, could I have a word with you?" He didn't say the words "in private," but Tom could feel them hanging in the air. The Commander sounded like he wasn't taking no for an answer. Tom knew he didn't want to have this talk in Sandrine's. Hell, he didn't want to have this talk at all. Actually, he had hoped the first officer would just let the whole thing drop.

"Alright, Commander." Trying to be casual, Tom racked his cue and headed for the door, leaving his friends standing, puzzled, at the table. He was reluctant to be alone with the first officer, but even more reluctant to talk with him in public. Tom realized as he left the bar with Chakotay that all eyes were on them. _Shit, the last thing I need is for everyone on this ship to know he fucked me._

As they entered the turbolift side by side, Chakotay asked, "Your quarters or mine, Lieutenant?" He immediately wished the words back. He hadn't meant them as an innuendo, but realized too late how they would sound.

Paris laughed, edgy. "Um, mine, Commander." He blushed lightly at the thought of what had happened in Chakotay's quarters the night before. Gods, he couldn't go back _there_ again!

The blush in Tom's face brought Chakotay's dream, unbidden, to the front of his mind. He pushed it back, hard. Remembering that would only make things worse. He tried to turn his thoughts elsewhere. At least Paris wasn't wearing his uniform . . . Chakotay didn't think he could look at that turtleneck right now without remembering tearing one just like it off his body the night before.

Standing side by side in the intimate space of the turbolift, the two men fell into self-conscious silence, staring at the doors and listening to the faint whir of the lift's motion.

Finally, the lift stopped at their deck. They made the grim trek to Paris's quarters as if on a death march. Paris hung back as the doors to his quarters slid open, allowing the Commander to enter first. For a moment, he considered escaping down the hall. _He'd probably just track me down and drag me back here. Besides, these are **my** quarters, dammit!_ He steeled himself and followed Chakotay inside, calling for the computer to raise the lights to the highest level.

Chakotay moved to stand before the couch, trying to give the pilot room. He knew he could be physically overbearing, and the tension in the room was already palpable. He watched Paris standing near the door, the pilot's face carefully composed, unreadable. Paris wasn't going to make this easy on him. Someone had to speak first; Chakotay figured it would have to be him.

Breathing deeply, he began, "Lieutenant . . . "

Suddenly, Paris knew he couldn't listen to this, couldn't talk about what had happened. The whole thing was just too bizarre. He abruptly cut Chakotay off, trying to deflect the discussion before it began. "I know, Commander, it never happened, any of it." His words were controlled, his voice tight. "I learned a long time ago how and when to keep my mouth shut. No one will hear about last night from me." He didn't even want to _think_ about what had happened, much less have to talk about it.

Patiently, Chakotay tried again. "Paris, I just wanted to say . . . "

Again Tom cut him off, desperate to stop the first officer's words. "No, Commander, forget it. You don't have to say anything. It's not a problem . . . "

Chakotay raised his voice a little. "Would you let me get a word in, please?" Forcing himself to relax, he unclenched his hands and took a deep breath. How to say it? He had been thinking it all day . . . ever since that dream he had had this morning. He began again, carefully. "I just wanted to say, I'm sorry for . . . for the way I . . . " He ran his hands through his cropped hair, exasperated and frustrated, at a loss for words. "Hell, I'm just sorry."

Tom was stunned. Chakotay had come to apologize? He couldn't believe the first officer was saying he was sorry, was talking to him with that tone. A tone that said, I was wrong to treat another person that way. Tom's carefully controlled expression fell away as his blue eyes opened wide in disbelief and he stared openly at the first officer.

Seeing that Paris was not going to interrupt, Chakotay forced himself to continue. "You were right--I was angry about the ruse. Being excluded was a blow to my command. But I should have kept the problem where it belonged. I was angry when the Captain dismissed my feelings of betrayal. You just got in the way, and I took my anger out on you." Chakotay stopped. He had said enough. More than enough. It was embarrassing to have to admit his paranoia, his lack of self-control to the pilot, but he felt he owed him an explanation after last night. Now it was up to Paris. How would he respond? Would he take this seriously, or turn around and use it against him?

The Commander's confession opened a door in Tom's mind. He had told B'Elanna earlier that he knew he had caused problems, but now he began to understand Chakotay's anger. Putting himself in the other man's place for the first time, he saw what the first officer must have seen, felt what he must have felt during the ruse. He remembered how he had answered Chakotay's concern for him in the mess hall and on the bridge. The first officer had been trying to reach him, to help him; he must have felt like an idiot when he discovered that all those nasty scenes had been an elaborate act. And Tom _had_ enjoyed goading the Commander under orders from the Captain. Now, for the first time, he felt truly sorry for what had happened between them during his performance.

Finally, Tom looked up to find Chakotay regarding him with apprehension. He knew the first officer was wondering how he would respond to the apology. Hell, he probably expected him to laugh in his face. Everyone knew Tom Paris couldn't take anything seriously. Surprising even himself, Tom stated simply, "I'm sorry, Commander. I didn't just get in the way. I added fuel to the fire--especially with what I said on Neelix's show. That was a mistake." Chakotay blinked, taken aback. Perhaps he had underestimated the pilot.

The two men looked across the room at each other with a wary respect. They were both astonished at the direction this conversation was taking. Tom hadn't expected an apology from the first officer. Chakotay hadn't expected Paris to meet his tortured admission with a statement of his own responsibility. Things were going better than he had anticipated. Still, the Commander felt the need for more support before he continued. Glancing behind him at the couch, Chakotay asked, "May I sit down, Lieutenant?" At Paris's assent, he took a seat on the edge of the couch. Tom sat in a chair across from him, closer to the door. An uncomfortable silence filled the room.

"Paris, I think we have more to discuss."

Tom felt his color rise at the knowledge of what Chakotay meant, and he wished he didn't blush so easily. "I thought we could just let sleeping dogs lie, Commander." Couldn't he leave _anything_ alone? He was worse than a Starfleet counselor.

Seeing that Paris would never broach the subject himself, Chakotay again took the lead. "I don't want the fight . . . or the sex" _there, I said it_ "to be a problem on the bridge. Our relationship has been strained at the best of times. Do you feel we can still work together?"

Straightening in his chair, Tom looked directly at Chakotay. "Flying Voyager is the most important thing in my life. I wouldn't let anything jeopardize that position." His voice was as serious as Chakotay had ever heard it.

"That's what I thought, Lieutenant."

"The . . . what happened last night . . . it won't affect my behavior on the bridge, Commander." As he looked again at Chakotay, Tom remembered the thrill of pressing the first officer's body against the wall and biting his chest. Why had it happened? He had to know what Chakotay would say. Suddenly, Tom found the floor very interesting. "Um, why do you think we . . . ?" _Why did you let me suck you, Commander? Why did you throw me down on your floor and fuck me?_

Chakotay sighed, opening his hands in a gesture of uncertainty. "I don't know. I've been wondering about it myself." He looked supremely uncomfortable, but Tom was still examining the floor, too busy avoiding his face to notice. "I was so angry . . . and then . . . Later, I wanted to believe it was all your doing, but I wanted it, too . . . you were right about that." Chakotay's voice was low, as if he could hardly speak the final words aloud.

This was too much. The Commander's words burned Tom's ears. He couldn't believe Chakotay had admitted this to him. Tom felt a rush of power as he understood that Chakotay had wanted him. Glancing up at the man on the couch, he saw a slow, dark blush making its way up the first officer's embarrassed face. The deep red of his uniform was only a shade darker.

Tom understood Chakotay's discomfort. _He's taking a risk, coming here, saying these things to me._ He could see that the Commander was waiting for his response, waiting to hear if Tom would tell him he had wanted it, too. He had, of course. He still wasn't sure why. But for Tom, talking about what had happened was more intimate than what they had actually done together. Sex was one thing; discussing it was another. That was the one part he wasn't good at. He didn't know how to tell the Commander about his own desire, but the oppressive silence was more than he could stand. He willed himself to speak.

"Well, Commander, I guess we have more in common than I thought. We both have a pretty unusual way of dealing with our anger. Maybe next time we're that mad, we should borrow B'Elanna's Klingon calisthenics holo-program instead." Tom made his voice nonchalant, although his blue eyes were dark with the meaning he hoped the Commander could read.

At Paris's light comment, Chakotay stiffened, looking first shocked, then a little relieved. Finally looking into Paris's face, he relaxed slightly and broke into a small grin. "Yes, Lieutenant, maybe we should." He understood that Paris was trying to put him at ease, trying to bring them both back from the dangerous ground where his confession had led them. Chakotay felt a flash of gratitude, although he recognized the pilot's use of humor as a shield. He knew that this was as close as Paris could come to acknowledging his own desire in words. "Klingon calisthenics are probably a lot easier on the muscles. And the wardrobe," he added sheepishly, remembering his uncontrolled behavior of the night before.

Tom, caught off guard, laughed out loud. "Don't worry about it, Commander. I needed a new uniform anyway." His voice was joking, but grateful. The first officer did have a sense of humor, after all. _He would probably be a lot happier if he didn't take everything so damn seriously. Easier to work with, too._

Chakotay felt the tension in his body ebb in the wake of the intense conversation, as if a pressure valve had been opened. Suddenly, he was exhausted.

"I should be going. We both have bridge duty in the morning." Chakotay carefully lifted himself off the couch, his knees stiff from the night before. "I'm glad we talked, Lieutenant. Thank you."

"Thanks for coming, Commander. I'm glad we talked, too." Tom was almost surprised to realize that it was true. He stood as Chakotay walked towards him and the door. "You know, Commander, you really aren't such a bad first officer after all." Taking back the ugly things he had said the night before, he reached out to shake Chakotay's hand.

Chakotay smiled as he took the offered hand. "Thank you, Mr. Paris. You're not a bad officer yourself, despite what I may have said yesterday." They shook hands, standing by the door. As they did, Tom found himself staring for a moment at the smile lingering on the Commander's lips. _I wonder . . ._ As Chakotay started to let go of his hand, Tom held on tighter and deliberately pulled him closer. His stomach turning nervous cartwheels, Tom leaned forward, squeezed Chakotay's hand, and barely brushed his warm lips across the Commander's chiseled mouth.

The breathy touch jolted like a plasma charge through both their bodies. Chakotay's breath quickened, although he neither pulled away nor leaned into the kiss. For Tom, the absence of rejection was almost the same as direct encouragement. He pulled back briefly to look Chakotay in the eyes; in their dark depths he saw the struggle between desire and propriety. With a surge of confidence, he gave his first officer his cockiest hot shot flyboy grin, wrapped his arms tightly around the Commander's waist, and devoured his mouth.

Now Chakotay responded with urgency, tasting the pilot's mouth for the first time. Tom's lips were demanding on his, drawing his tongue out of his mouth and sucking at it hungrily. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Chakotay noticed the faintly metallic taste of the cut he had made in Tom's lip during their fight. The memory of last night, along with the hot, open kisses they were sharing now, sent a flood of desire tearing through Chakotay's veins. _If I don't stop this right now, I'm going to fuck his brains out. Again._ This thought brought him back to his senses, and Chakotay pulled back, breathing heavily into Paris's flushed face; he knew the lust he saw there was mirrored in his own.

With a tiny smile, he asked, "Lieutenant, are you trying to seduce me?"

Paris, his blue eyes laughing, replied, "Yes, Sir."

Chakotay shook his head, smiling more openly, and disentangled himself from Tom's arms. "I think we both need some rest, Mr. Paris. I'll see you on the bridge."

As Chakotay left Tom's quarters, he broke into a low chuckle. On the other side of the door, Tom laughed too. There was plenty of time. It was going to be a long, long trip. And next time, he was going to tell Chakotay to call him Tom.

 

End.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments from Jan on first publication on Usenet (alt.startrek.creative.erotica in October, 1996):
> 
>  
> 
> _Before "The Chute," "The Basics," and "Resolutions," there was "Investigations" . . . you remember, that episode where Paris went undercover and was kidnapped by Seska and the Kazons, and ended up exposing the spy on board Voyager. This story takes place immediately after "Investigations." June and I wanted to address Chakotay's anger about being left out of the Paris ruse (since the writers on the show decided not to) and how the deception might have affected his relationship with Tom Paris._
> 
>  
> 
> A note on the title, from June:
> 
>  
> 
> _I kept focusing on the fight as the center of this story. I thought we should call it "In This Corner." Once I started getting excited about the idea of a C/P fight, I had this vision of some intergalactic Las Vegas type place. And the announcer says, "In this corner, he's battered and abused, but lean and lithe. He's survived Court Martials, The Maquis and the final test, New Zealand. Here he is, the Hot Shot Pilot -- the Blond, Young Beauty of Voyager -- Thomas Eugene Paris." And once the shouts, cheers, and boos die down, the announcer turns and says, "Entering the ring now, he's the dark, mysterious former Maquis leader. He left Starfleet to defend his home and heritage but now he's back. He's Big, he's Beautiful, he's your First Officer and Reigning Champion, Chaaa-kooo-taaay!!!"_


End file.
